relationships

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I am the Mother of a Gay Son

rainbow flagI heard my 7 year old child quietly crying. Roberto was wiping the tears from watery eyes. I wondered if I should say something. “Give him a minute,” I told myself. “Let him have a moment. Everyone needs a moment to work through their grief.”

As his breathing slowed and tears were blotted dry, I asked Roberto, a sweet innocent person, “Are you okay? You seem very sad.” Deep breaths, interrupted with quick short sniffles. “Heave-ho,” his chest physically vibrated.
“Some kids said I was gay.”
“Gay? Doesn’t gay mean happy?” I asked, allowing him to control the conversation.
“Yes, I think so, but… they meant boys-like-boys, girls-like-girls gay.”
“Why did they say that to you, why do you think?” I wondered.
“I don’t know. One of them said that the color of my eyes were not like theirs so I must be gay.”
The adult in me simply said, “They are just uneducated, uninformed”. The feeling miffed person said, “Ignore them.”

Gaily, life went on. Mostly, Roberto enjoyed happy days, with many days trying to figure out what life means – only in a way a young child is capable of.

___

I heard my 12 year old quietly crying. Roberto, almost a teen, was wiping the tears from watery eyes. I wondered if I should say something. “Give him a minute,” I told myself. “Let him have a moment. Everyone needs a moment to work through their grief.”

As his breathing slowed and tears were blotted dry, I asked Roberto, not so small, not quite a grown person, “Are you okay? You seem very sad.” Deep breaths, interrupted with quick short sniffles. “Heave-ho,” his chest physically vibrated.
“Some kids said I was gay.”
Why did they say that to you, why do you think?” I wondered.
“I don’t know. Some of the kids think I am different. One day someone is my friend, the next day they don’t talk to me”.
“How does that make you feel?,” I questioned.
“I feel bad. I just want a friend I can trust, be myself with.”
The adult in me simply said, “Just be patient. Somewhere, a friend is waiting in the wings“. The feeling miffed person said, “Ignore them.”

Gaily, life went on. Mostly, Roberto enjoyed happy days, with many days trying to figure out what life means – only in a way a preteen is capable of.

___

I heard my 17 year old quietly crying. Roberto was wiping the tears from watery eyes. I wondered if I should say something. “Give him a minute,” I told myself. “Let him have a moment. Everyone needs a moment to work through their grief.”

As his breathing slowed and tears were blotted dry, I asked Roberto, close to being an adult, “Are you okay? You seem very sad.” Deep breaths, interrupted with quick short sniffles. “Heave-ho,” his chest physically vibrated.

“I don’t want to ruin the dynamics of a nuclear family. I don’t want to disappoint anyone,” Roberto emotionally forced the words out of rather strong vocal cords.
“Why do you say that?” I soothingly asked, already knowing the answer.
“I am gay,” he stated, voice quivering. He fell to the floor, emotionally overwhelmed.
I knelt next to Roberto, told him to always be true, true to who he is.

Gaily, life went on. Mostly, Roberto enjoyed happy days, with many days trying to figure out what life means – only in a way a close to being an adult teen is capable of.

____

I heard my adult son, laughing happily, content with who he is. Knowing his family supports him no matter what, a family who doesn’t judge him based on who he chooses as a partner, but rather a family who embraces his warmth, his kindness, his love, and his life, without conditions.

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Dad Among Dads

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I quietly snuck down the vacant halls of the building, creeping along, listening attentively, trying to hear my dad’s voice behind one of the many heavy doors, where he taught the science of politics. Even as a small child, I was around 7 years old, I very aware that that was a place not to scream (ever!) and to keep giggling to a quieter that quiet whisper.  I knew that Mr. Political Science Professor was behind one of those doors, teaching young impressionable minds, and that they all deserved the respect of a non-disruptive environment. I understood my boundaries within the confines of his workspace.

As I tiptoed along I discovered the door to his classroom was ajar. So, I peeked in. Ever so slightly. So curious about what exactly he did.  I didn’t quite know what his job entailed. What it meant to be a teacher. My dark blond hair fell onto my face as I lowered my head when he glanced at me. But then, I quickly looked back up at him and found a smile on his face. Casually, he turned his attention back to his students, as he continued to lecture.

I felt my dad’s power in that moment. His ability to drawn people in, to mesmerize an audience with the knowledge he shared, by his sheer presence, his demeanor, and his top-of-the-line enthusiasm. I quickly glanced at the rows of students watching him. They were enthralled. Focused. Entertained. So much so, that they did not even notice me gazing at them because, obviously, my dad was the only thing that mattered at that moment. He was their professor. Someone building their knowledge base, adding another step toward their future.

To me, though, he was simply my dad. A person I adored, deep within my heart. The person who took me for rides in his convertible, our hair blowing every which way. My dad was the person who sat at home, quietly reading various books and completing crossword puzzles while gently scratching a kitten’s tailbone.

My dad, Professor John B. Palmer, was, and always will be, thought of lovingly. Fully. As both an intellectual, someone I admire, and simply as the calm, serene person who made an impact on my life.

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#selfie

meThumbsUp

I learned early on, without being told, that I had to look out for myself. To be independent. Somehow I knew that if I wanted to get anything done, I had to do it without help.

I was the tenth child born into my family, so my arrival was most likely nothing too exciting for my nine brothers and my teenage sister. They most likely had other things on their minds, something else besides another baby in the house.

As I grew, I learned that anything I hoped for had to happen because I wanted it to occur.

I remember being young, but old enough to ride a bike out on the street, in front of the house. One day, I experienced my first flat tire, and wasn’t sure what to do about it. None of my brothers was around to help, or just didn’t feel like it, so I searched high and low, looking for a patch kit to repair the inner tube. Right there, in that garage of ours, and using my common sense, I managed to pry the tire away from the metal rim by using a flathead screwdriver, pull out the tube, fill it with air, dip it into a container of water, and look for bubbles. I then patched the hole, returned the tube to the inside of the tire, secured it to the rim, and filled the patched tube with air. The tire was bolted back onto the bike’s frame and I rode off. I was so proud of myself for accomplishing something I knew nothing about. I felt very independent and at that moment realized I didn’t need anyone’s help, with anything. Me, Daphne Anne, was very capable of getting things done.

My independence deepened, which affected the way I molded my life, when I found my first job, at age 16. Like any young kid wanting to work, I wanted my own money to spend the way I chose. But more so, I assumed I must have been a financial burden to my parents, and I wanted to ease any stress they may had been feeling, having to find extra cash for this or that. Therefore, I, first and foremost, will always depend on me and rarely ask for help. Which many might say is a fault I should ease up on. But, I’d say, it’s a personal fault I can deal with.

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A Man and His Computers

 

Repost from 3½ years ago… because… I was reminded of the story I told (below) of a time when Rudy was working and living in Arkansas… and, similar to back then, today he was, again, in desperate need of a new computer…

hp computer

December 2012

Rudy stood in the small kitchen, bent over, one hand resting on his hip, the other wiping away the tears in his eyes. Brad had just presented him with a laptop computer.

Not long before that presentation, Brad and I arrived for a our two-week visit with Rudy in Arkansas. After setting our luggage in the appropriate rooms, and grabbing a hot cup of coffee, the three of us sat together on the couch and simply talked. Feeling excited, both about seeing his dad and the unexpected surprise hidden inside my backpack, Brad began a conversation about the necessity of a new computer for Rudy to stay in touch because, for months, Rudy would casually mention that the 6 year old laptop he’d been using was beginning to malfunction, making it difficult to even log on.

“Dad, seriously, you need a new computer.”
“No I don’t. I only used that one to check on sports,” Rudy answered as he pointed to the now nonfunctioning, old laptop. “Plus, that’s an expense we shouldn’t spend right now.”
“But, you should have a computer that you can use for anything, right Mom?” Brad looked my way, using his eyes and smile to coax me to chime in, to play along.
“Yeah, Rud, you should have a working computer to keep in touch with the world, and especially with us. One with a camera so we can Skype.”
“Skype? What’s that?”
“Anyway, Dad, you do need a new computer. You really do,” Brad stated as he walked out of the room.

Within minutes Brad bounded back into the kitchen with outstretched arms and said, “Merry Christmas, Dad.”

That’s when Rudy’s eyes suddenly filled with tears.

“For you, Dad. From all of us.”

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We Buried Our Mom Today

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Mom, a volunteer in the United States Naval Reserves during WWII, was honored today with a ceremony performed by an honor detail, two members of the Armed Forces, in which taps were played by a bugler, followed by the folding and presenting of the American Flag to my brother.

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Mom (on the right), early twenties, ready to make a difference.

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afternoon delight

hamburger

fries

coke

Sitting in a bar seat
at
the local burger joint
looking out the window
watching the evening commuters
drive by
on their way home
while we
eat

All-American style!

by

valuable values

i value my parents, and how they modeled what it means to be a good person

i value love, patience, understanding
happiness, health

family, friendships, relationships

diversity, freedom, independence

nature

warmth
kindness
smiling faces

children and cats

i value simplicity
living like there is no tomorrow
teachable moments
making a difference in someone’s life

i value laughter, loud cheerful laughter

i value quietness

i value rudy, liz, roberto, and brad

i value me, the mirrored me
public and private

i value honesty
open-mindedness
concern for humanity

kisses
caresses
and hugs

i value life

by

Humor From The Backseat

Years and years ago, I was driving down the freeway with 12 year old Liz and three of her friends, Britney, Alison, and Jessica under a bright blue, sunshiny day. I am sure Roberto was in the car, also, due to the fact he would have been very young, and still completely dependent on me.

Anyway, I am speeding along, heading towards our destination when I mention that when I was a young kid, about their age, I remember driving with my mom and my sis, returning from a mini vacation. I detailed the story explaining that it was a dark evening, aside from the brake and head lights bouncing off all the other traveling cars. Suddenly, not too far ahead of us, a small car tumbled, bursting into flames. We gasped, completely taken back by that strange, unexpected, and horrible, occurrence.

“Oh, my gosh!” one of the girls said, after I finished my story. And then a discussion ensued. Freeway memories of their own.

“I remember once when I was driving with my dad, we saw a mattress fall out the back of a truck,” Alison commented, “right in the path of speeding cars.”

Another discussion picked up. About the consequences of a rather large piece of bedding blocking travelers. What chaos it would cause.

And just as serious, just as concerned, Britney spoke. “Well, once, my dad’s hat flew out of our car!” she exclaimed.

For a second. Just a slight second. Everyone was quiet. Trying to grasp what Britney just said. Then suddenly, we all busted out laughing. Laughing about how funny her comment sounded within the context of the conversation, and even more so about how serious she was.

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A boy.

brad at newport 2012

A boy.
Stood.
Looking out to sea.
Wondering.
If.
He’d ever go back in.
Into the water.

He wants to.
But.
He’s scared.
Because.
When he was younger.
The ocean tried to swallow him up.
When he was just playing.
Splashing in the waves.

That boy.
Was pulled under.
Tossed around.
Until finally.
He was spit back out.
By the teasing sea.

Since then.
The boy will not even allow.
The foaming waves.
To lap his toes.
Not at all.

Not yet.

by

RIP, Mary Elizabeth Palmer

mom age 10

My mom, age 91 at the time, was telling me stories of her youth. Just talking. Telling stories as they popped into her mind. Memories of a young girl.

“The school was very big. Five stories high with a big attic. Mount Saint Mary’s Academy For Girls in Little Rock, Arkansas. I lived there. For a bit.

I remember so much….

When I first arrived at St. Mary’s, my older sister was crying as the nuns showed us around. Showed us where we were going to live. Told us the rules. I didn’t cry. I was okay. And I was so young! I adjusted myself to the situation. Somehow, for some reason, for me, it was no big deal. I don’t know how I did it. I just did. You just do. Adapt. Adjust.”

I reminded her that I, too, easily adapt. A trait she passed on to me.

“I remember the nuns rapping our fingers for acting up.”
“What was considered acting up?” I asked her.
“Talking.” We both laughed at the simplicity of the bad behavior kids got themselves into. Compared it to today’s standards.

My mom continued.

“I think it was amazing the way I loved the wood. The wood of the banister. I just couldn’t get over it. Well, anyway I was running my hand along the smooth wooden banister, walking down the stairs when I noticed Bertine Miesner, a red-haired Jewish girl, stepping up the stairs. ‘You’re so spoiled, you’re rotten!’, she said to me. I didn’t even know her. Never saw her before. And, she didn’t know me! So I said ‘If I were rotten, I’d be black!’ Bertine just looked at me like, hey, that makes sense. We became best friends after that.”

My mom smiled at the memory.

“One year, there was a Halloween party at the school. The nuns let me borrow a tutu. You know the kind? Like a one-piece bathing suit, with the lace around my hips? Well, I was wearing that tutu, which was too big for me, and I didn’t care. I was doing cartwheels and it would fall off my shoulders. But, I was having a ton of fun. Just flipping over and over. While listening to the sounds of chains being dragged across the pipes. Making spooky Halloween sounds. During one of my flips I noticed a woman watching me.

Next thing I know I was invited to a party. A party for one of the other girls. A girl living off  the school grounds. There was party at her house a few weeks later.”

I kept listening. Just watching my mom’s gestures and facial expressions. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face, even if I tried, because I was so mesmerized by her tales of long ago.

“The nuns dressed me for the event in a very pretty red dress. They chauffeured me to the place. Dropped me off. I had arrived a little late, so I walked in by myself. As I passed the adults sitting down near the entrance, I heard someone say ‘Oh, she’s here.’ To this day I have no idea what the interest in me was. Kids were never told anything. And we didn’t dare ask anything. When I sat down to eat cake and ice cream that same woman who had been watching me do cartwheels, leaned over and whispered in my ear just as I was gobbling a mouthful of cake. I don’t even know what she said. All I know is how embarrassed I was that my mouth was full, and I couldn’t answer.”

I didn’t say a word. I wanted to let my mom live in the past, so I just listened. Wanting more.

“I was a great skater,” she continued.
“Roller skating?” I asked.
“Yeah. We skated all over the school, except for the side of the school reserved for the nuns. It was their private area.”
“Where did you get the skates?” I questioned.
“Skates were on the school grounds, for the girls to use. We would skate down a slope. Skate like the boys do now. Whoosh!” She demonstrated with her hand and arm, gliding them in a quick sloping motion. “We would go down, then up. Up onto the sidewalk. Just like during the Olympics,” my mom stated, firmly.
“Oh, yeah. Like they do in the X-Games, right?”
“I think so. Yeah. We were doing that! Not with skateboards. With roller skates. But still, it’s the same thing. In a way.”
“What were your skates like?”
“I strapped them on. And tightened them with a key. The wheels were metal. We’d zip up and down. Do it over and over. In the back of the school,” she happily retold the memory.

“Later, when I moved to Los Angeles, to live with my aunt and uncle,” my mom continued, “I walked right up to a group of girls at my new school, assuming they would just allow me to join their conversation. As I approached, one of the girls said, ‘Oh, hi, we were just talking about you. Trying to decide if you are beautiful, or pretty, or just average.’ I was curious about what they thought. I just stood there, waiting to hear the answer, when suddenly another girl shouted out, ‘Let’s play ball!’ Everyone suddenly dispersed. I never did find out if they thought I was beautiful or not.”

She put her finger to her lips, a sign of contemplation.

“Well, I am sure the answer was most definitely beautiful. You always have been. Looking at pictures of you. Throughout your life. You were beautiful. Still are,” I said, with heartfelt emotion.
“Yeah, I am assuming they thought I was beautiful.” She laughed.

“I am rambling on,” she quickly added. “Next time I will let you talk.”

“Oh, you’re not rambling. I like hearing your stories. Tell me anything. Everything. I am listening,” I honestly admitted.

My mom yawned.

“You seem tired.” I knew she was.
“I am,” is all she said.
“I will let you rest.” I gave her a hug. A kiss. “I like your stories.”
“I guess when you get older you remember things,” she reflected.

I smiled.

“I love you,” I told her.
“I love you, too.”
“Bye, Mom. See you later.”
“Adios.”